


Dangerous

by tklivory



Series: Dragon Age: Inquisition - Martin Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Dialogue, First Meetings, M/M, Martin Trevelyan, POV Dorian, POV Dorian Pavus, Pre-Relationship, Redcliffe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tklivory/pseuds/tklivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These shorts are part fic, part character study of Dorian Pavus written in preparation for my long fic about my canon Inquisitor, <a href="https://41.media.tumblr.com/a2714c6dca1eb232af9dfbdf8f1e52df/tumblr_nzzcqxtdNz1u6rlcwo4_1280.png">Martin Trevelyan</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian Pavus knows his former mentor Alexius is doing more than playing with fire, he is playing with time - and putting the entire world in danger. To save the world, Dorian travels to Redcliffe and arranges to meet with the Herald.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Dorian.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian said with a wave of his hand. “It’s _my_ idea, therefore it’s brilliant.”

Felix gave him _that look,_ humor mixed with just enough sarcasm to puncture Dorian’s ego _._  “Right. I forgot.”

Dorian glanced towards the largest building in this backwater village where he’d ended up, a frown coming to his face. “My calculations show that the rift in that Chantry will only grow more unstable. Your father’s manipulations have ensured that the line between _then_ and _now_ is far more blurred than the Veil can absorb, and it’s centered around the rifts in this region. There’s only one person who can undo that damage, and rumor has it that he’s coming to Redcliffe.” Turning back to Felix, he said, “I _must_ meet the Herald. Your father is using magic that has the potential to rip the world asunder, and doing so at the worst possible time. Those rifts - and the breach _-_ are the clear and present danger facing Thedas, yet he’s poking them with a stick _._ ” With a sigh, Dorian finally shook his head. “Look, just take my note and give it to Trevelyan, will you? I’ll handle it from there.”

“All right, Dorian. He’ll get the note, I promise.” Felix grimaced slightly in pain, a grimace Dorian worked hard not to react to, given the circumstances. “I’ve got to return before Father notices I’m gone. Just... don’t get caught, for my sake.”

“As if I would allow any of them near me,” Dorian assured him. “Off you go!”

When Felix was out of sight, the mage turned and looked at the Chantry, brows drawn together in worry. His calculations indicated that the interdiction between its own magic and the time magic was going to make the area around it _highly_ unstable. _Someone_  had to make sure that the matter didn’t get out of hand, and until the Herald arrived, that someone, apparently, was him. A look of determination settled onto his face as he gave a short nod, then moved towards the Chantry, hugging the shadows as much as he could to stay out of sight.

* * *

No one arrived in the next few hours, but the demons weren’t so polite as to wait until Dorian’s invitation was delivered properly to the Herald. Right on schedule, at least according to his notes, the green glowing hole began to spit them out, and the fight began. His previous calculations had already told him where the areas of time dilation would occur relative to the location of the rift, as well as which would be faster and slower. Luckily, the knowledge gave him enough of an edge that he was able to keep the demons contained to the Chantry, and far away from the innocents beyond its doors. The longer the combat dragged on, however, the more difficult it became to defeat them, and when the Terror Demons - insanely oversized praying mantises that they were - appeared, he was quite hoping that a bit of relief was imminent.

When the door finally opened to let in a small group, Dorian was a trifle too busy to acknowledge them immediately. A couple of shades had evaded the traps he’d set in the slow circles and forced him to engage them in staff-to-claw combat. A few solid blows later, however, and he was able to turn to the newcomers with a bright smile, as if that had been his plan _all along._

“Good! You’re finally here!” he said in a chipper voice that hopefully disguised his burgeoning exhaustion. “Now help me close this, would you?”

Naturally, at just that instant - or possibly _because_  of the Herald’s presence, considering the way the rift flared as Dorian turned back around to face it - more demons popped through, and further speech became impossible for a frenzied while. Still, it wasn’t so frenzied that he couldn’t observe the new arrivals from the Inquisition.

It was rather easy to deduce who the Herald was, since he wasn’t Qunari, elf, or a woman according to rumor. When one of the man’s hands flared bright green while he engaged an oversized praying mantis, Dorian nodded mentally and labeled him as _the Herald._ Curiosity kept rather more of his attention on the man than perhaps was warranted, but he was honestly burning to know how the man would close the rift. Did he have a spell? An artefact? Did it have something to do with the glowing hand of his? It was clear that the rift reacted to him somehow, and given the color of the light in his hand, it seemed obvious to Dorian that the two were related. But how? And how did it all tie in with the time magic Alexius was abusing here in Redcliffe?

Dorian simply _had_ to know. 

When the last demon fell, the Herald stepped forward and lifted his hand. As Dorian watched with slightly narrowed eyes and a tilted head, an arc of green light sprang into being between the man’s outstretched hand and the rift. Dorian heard - and felt - an unsettling, long-edged keen that started low and then built to an almost unbearable level this close. While he watched, Dorian’s fingers twitched unconsciously in complex patterns as he tried to figure out what he was witnessing, creating and discarding his theories with an efficiency drilled into him by the very man he was here to stop. When the rift contracted, then exploded into a cascade of green and black detritus, Dorian straightened and strutted into the middle of the Chantry. 

“Fascinating,” he observed, looking up at the place where the rift had been before turning around to face the Herald. “How does that work, exactly?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew that the man wouldn’t have the answer. The daggers the Herald was cleaning indicated that his past had involved many pointy, stabby bits rather than experience with matters arcane. A laugh bubbled to his lips. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.”

The Herald finally looked up from his task of cleaning the ichor from his blades, and Dorian’s smile dimmed slightly. Whatever could be said about the Herald - and rumor had _plenty_  to say - levity didn’t seem to be part of it. _What was his name again? Trevelyan, that’s right. A Free Marcher. Probably as tiresome as a Fereldan._ Oh, he was handsome enough, with striking green eyes and a face that wouldn’t be amiss adorning a man’s pillow, but it wasn’t really enough to make up for the coldness in his face as he looked at Dorian through slightly narrowed eyes. “Who are you?”

“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see.” Dorian quickly introduced himself, endured the moment as the Qunari complimented and insulted him in the same breath, and settled down into a more business-like demeanor as he offered his aid to the Inquisition. 

The man remained cold as they talked, with one exception that Dorian noted immediately. Whenever the man looked at the woman in his party, the warrior who stalked about the place as if not trusting the demons to stay gone, there was a hint of a smile and a softening of his face. _Ah, I see._

Discarding any last semblance of jolliness, Dorian became quite serious as he explained the danger of what Alexius was doing to Redcliffe, though he was unsure of his success in the face of that steady stare, a hardness that didn’t fade even after Felix arrived with information that was new even to Dorian.

 _Venatori? A Tevinter cult? Oh, Alexius, what_ have _you gotten yourself into?_ Pushing a vague sense of guilt aside firmly, Dorian returned his attention to the matter at hand. He _would_  help Alexius, somehow - just not in the way the man had requested back in Tevinter.

When the conversation went nowhere, Dorian gave a mental sigh. It was obvious that the Herald would pursue his own path, and wanted to consult with others in the Inquisition before he decided what to do about Alexius. Dorian had done his best, as had Felix - the rest had to be placed solely in the care of that green glowing hand. So the mage offered his farewells, then met the Herald’s gaze directly as he added, “But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I’ll be in touch.”

For the first time, the Herald smiled at him. It was slight, and disappeared quickly, but it was enough of a change to his expression that it turned the Herald from _stoic_ to _complicated_ in Dorian’s mind. _And, let us not forget, dangerous,_  Dorian reminded himself.

After a parting admonition to Felix to stay alive, he slipped out of the Chantry through the side door and quickly made his way out of Redcliffe. He needed to find a place far away from... well, _everyone,_ really. The general Fereldan populace mistrusted him because of his staff, the Fereldan mages distrusted him because he was from the Imperium, and the Southern Templars... well, that hardly needed elaboration. He had no friends and many enemies in these Maker-forsaken lands, and yet, here he was, soliciting an alliance with an organization which was itself so new that few knew what to make of it yet.

“Excellent work as always, Pavus,” he murmured bitterly to himself. “Odd how the fire doesn’t seem any cooler than the frying pan did, hmm?”

If the Herald didn’t take him up on his offer, he wasn’t sure what he would do. As he started trudging through the intolerable wilderness, hoping to find a place free of the ever-present conflict so he could rest and perhaps find something to eat, he pondered what he would do if the Herald opted to take another path and leave Alexius to his own devices.

_The Venatori are the key to this whole affair, I think. I’d best start learning more about them, and quickly._

With that decided, he set off across the Hinterlands. It had been a long time since he’d dared to hope for anything. Perhaps the Herald could help him find that again... or destroy it once more.


	2. Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds himself in a horrifying vision of the future with the Herald.

The man wasn't human. He couldn't be, not and unleash that much terror with nothing more than two curved pieces of metal.

Dorian did his part, naturally, maintaining a protective barrier around both of them as best as he could given the way the man leapt around the field of battle. As the last Venatori fell lifeless to the ground, the Herald turned in a tight circle, looking for more, before he calmly started to clean his blades. How he ignored the blood spattered all over his own armor and face, Dorian could not understand, but at least they were safe from immediate danger - again.

That did little to diminish the larger threat, unfortunately. They were still in a future terrorised by Alexius and his Elder One, still finding new horrors inside every room. The Herald was leading both of them on a slow, organized sweep through the jail cells below the main castle, since their discovery of Fiona had given him hope he could find the others. The occasional Venatori tried to ambush them, but…well. None had survived the Herald.

As the newly cleaned blades slid home, Trevelyan looked up. "Time to move." Without waiting for a response, the Herald moved on, a restless energy coiling around him and propelling him ever forward. It was interesting to witness such a different side to the man, considering how static he’d been during the conversation in the Chantry at Redcliffe, but at the same time it was unsettling as well. Every time he thought he had figured out one aspect, another one would present itself.

_Complicated indeed._

Realizing that his musing had put him in danger of being left behind, Dorian hurried after the Herald. As he went, his mind returned to the other quandary facing them: determining precisely _what_ Alexius had done to send them into this dire future. Certainly it was a puzzle more than worthy of his attention. After all, though he and his former mentor had developed a comprehensive theory as to how to manipulate time with magic, they hadn’t quite managed the final leap from concept to execution. Obviously that last hurdle had been navigated, if a bit haphazardly, placing Dorian and his erstwhile companion into their current untenable predicament. Further muddying the waters was Dorian’s instinctive reaction when Alexius had attempted to destroy the Herald, adding an unpredictable element to already volatile magic.

It was truly a compelling conundrum, and one that occupied most of Dorian’s awareness as they walked. Abruptly, however, a loud _clang_ startled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see the Herald lower his foot and catch a swinging cell door with his hand before stepping into the cell beyond. Seeing an almost solid wall of red lyrium, Dorian instinctively stepped forward. "Don't touch anything!"

Trevelyan turned his head enough to meet Dorian's gaze. "I know. I'm only looking.”

"Looking at what? Oh," Dorian said, his voice dropping to a more respectful tone as he saw the body on the ground. "Poor soul." As the Herald knelt next to the corpse, he took a moment to step closer and peer into the cell. "They don't appear to have suffered Fiona's fate, at least. They're still...here, and not--" He cleared his throat and subsided, uncomfortably remembering the cells with pure red lyrium and no remains to speak of save for a few remnants of cloth and armor. Bowing his head, he murmured, “May they rest in the bosom of the Maker.” There really didn’t seem much else to say at that point.

Dorian watched as Trevelyan’s gloved hand clenched into a tight fist while he examined the body, though he said not a word. Eventually, the Herald reached out and settled his hand on the deceased’s breastplate, drawing Dorian's attention to the Templar symbol upon it. "Her throat was slashed," he said. "There's a body because she chose her own end."

"How do you know that's a woman?" Dorian asked curiously, even as the man's hand moved up to the neck and pulled something from the body with a swift jerk. Realizing that he wasn't going to get an answer, Dorian turned his attention back to the body. "She was a Templar, or at least so says her armor. I don't see a weapon--"

"She used her fingernails." With that flat declaration, Trevelyan stood, tucking whatever he had taken into his tunic before stepping out of the cell.

"How on Thedas could you know that? And how--" The second question died on his lips as the Herald faced Dorian. There was something… _off_ about his expression, something dangerous.

"Because it's what I would have done." Without another word, he moved to the door on the opposite side of the room from where they'd entered. "Enough dawdling. Let's find the others."

It took Dorian a moment to get moving after that, taken aback as he was by the other man’s fatalism. It was a side of the Herald he hadn't even suspected, an innate and resonant comprehension of desperation. More than that, the way he had said the words, the emptiness in his face...  _When have you felt such depths of despair, Trevelyan?_

And he had considered the man complicated _before._ Now he knew the Herald was a veritable enigma, with twists and turns far more complex than Dorian had realized. And if there was one thing Dorian couldn't abide, it was a mystery.

Yet it wasn’t the only one facing him, and the other one was even more pressing: _how could they return?_ With a frown, Dorian settled back into deep thought. Hopefully, once Dorian figured out the specific mechanism - Maker willing - he'd be able to reverse-engineer the spell and put them back in their proper time and place. There was no _guarantee,_ but it seemed prudent not to inform the Herald of that - especially given the mood the man seemed to be in. Dorian had seen implacable, of course, but he'd never witnessed quite so _ruthless_ a determination as this man possessed. It was fascinating and daunting, all at once, but he was beginning to wonder if that small smile he'd seen back in the Redcliffe Chantry had been nothing more than a facade, and not the slip to reveal something softer underneath that Dorian had taken it to be.

Somehow, that thought was mildly disappointing. Surely the man _was_ human, wasn’t he?

He _had_ to be.

* * *

The attacks continued as shades were added into the mix, springing up from the ground without warning to claw and scream. After several such battles, however, the actions of the mage and the rogue fell into the same lethal pattern. When three such creatures attempted to attack them a short while later, Trevelyan simply drew his daggers as Dorian snapped a barrier spell over both of them, then plunged into the fight, leaving Dorian to ensure that the choice wasn't suicidal with a few well placed spells. The fight was brief and brutal, leaving both men a bit short of breath for a few moments.

As Dorian leaned on his staff and waited for the Herald to clean his daggers once more, a glint on the floor caught his eye. Curious, he walked over and picked up what turned out to be an amulet with some sort of heraldry on it. His brow furrowed as he realized that he recognized the symbol, though at first he only felt a faint nagging sensation as he pondered where he'd seen that particular crest before.

"Where did you find that?"

Startled, Dorian looked up to find the Herald standing quite close, looking almost angry. "What, this?" he asked, holding up the amulet. "It was on the ground here." Then, just like that, his memory clicked, and he stared at the amulet before looking up into those stern green eyes. "This is the symbol of your House." He glanced in the direction from which they'd come, quickly putting all the facts together, then turned to meet Trevelyan’s gaze once more. "You knew her."

For a moment, the Herald's nostrils flared and his brows drew downward, but then the anger passed, and he sighed with a heartfelt weariness. "Please?" he asked, an unfamiliar note of vulnerability in his voice as he held out his hand.

"Yes, of course." Hastily Dorian pressed the necklace into the outstretched palm. "Do forgive me. It must have fallen while you fought." Though his mind burned with further questions, he respectfully refrained from asking them. "Had I known--" His mouth snapped shut when Trevelyan raised his hand, palm out, and watched in silence as the man’s fingers smoothed over the surface of the amulet.

"Only House Trevelyan may wear these amulets," the Herald said quietly, then turned the amulet over, revealing where the gold casing had been marred. His finger traced the scratch for a moment, an odd expression on his face. "In my excitement at receiving my first dagger for my ninth birthday, I made this mark to show off its edge. I thought she'd never forgive me for ruining her necklace." His lips pressed together tightly for a moment, then relaxed into a sad smile. "Sisters can be such tyrants, sometimes."

Dorian inhaled sharply, remembering the man's clenched fist as he'd stared down at the body, his certainty that it had been a woman, and his insistence that he knew the nature of her death. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly. "I had no idea."

When he looked up, the Herald's gaze held an intensity that made Dorian's mouth go dry. "This world won't happen," he said, giving each word the weight of an entire speech. "I won't _let_ it happen. And you'll help make sure it does not."

"Whoever this Elder One is, whatever Alexius is trying to do, I will not let it come to pass," Dorian told him fervently. "You have my word, Herald."

For a moment more, their gazes remained locked, and then Trevelyan nodded. "Thank you." He put the amulet into the pouch attached to his belt this time, rather than tucking it into his tunic, then held out his hand. "Call me Martin."

A bit taken aback by the sudden gesture, Dorian took the offered hand in his own. "Dorian, but I believe I already mentioned that, hmm?"

Martin grinned, reminding the mage of that hint of _someone else_ he'd seen back in the Redcliffe Chantry. "Once or twice." Releasing Dorian's hand, he turned and set into motion once more. "Come on. We've got work to do."

After a stolen moment of admiring the man’s rather fine ass, Dorian shook himself back to the present - well, the future, really - and hurried after him. They did, after all, have quite a feat ahead of them.

_At least the view is enjoyable, for the moment._


	3. Salvation

_“Dorian?”_

_His name somehow managed to penetrate the fog of alcohol into which he had flung himself, though it took a few blinks before the man standing above him came into focus. As the features of a vaguely familiar man became visible, Dorian smiled and pushed himself away from the divan where he’d been lounging, reaching out to snake his arm around the other man’s waist. “In the glorious flesh, yes,” he said with a sultry smile. “Give me a few hours of your time, and you’ll wonder how you ever lived without me.”_

_The man chuckled and gently extracted himself from Dorian’s grasp. “That isn’t why I’m here.”_

_“No? Pity.” Dorian pouted a moment, then shrugged and raised the bottle of wine he held to his lips for one last swallow before starting a new one. When it was pulled from his grasp, he looked blearily at the man who’d taken it from him. “I say, that was uncalled for.”_

_The man tossed the bottle onto the divan and took Dorian’s arm. “Let’s get something besides alcohol in you for a few hours, hmm? There’s more to life than finding the bottom of every bottle you meet.”_

_“What could possibly be more riveting than wanton self-destruction?” Dorian protested, even as he was led out of the brothel to which he’d devoted far too much of his time._

Dorian knew he should be angry, furious even, at what Alexius had done. But the man standing in front of them, staring into the fire… Was this _truly_ the same man he’d known? The Herald spoke with passion barely contained, every gesture a subtle threat, but Alexius simply sounded weary.

Unable to remain silent, Dorian finally asked, “Was it worth it? Everything you did to the world, to yourself?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Alexius said in a broken voice. “All we can do is wait for the end.”

Dorian was rendered speechless. This… this broken shell of a man, how could _this_ be Alexius? The man who had pulled him from debauchery, who’d given Dorian purpose and meaning in a time when he’d never looked beyond the next cock or bottle…

_How could it have come to this?_

He hadn’t noticed the emaciated figure crouching next to Alexius until Leliana grabbed him and set a knife to his throat, but the shock truly set in when his mentor called out a name in response. “That’s Felix?” A cold sensation sliced down his spine as he stepped forward, the anger now well and truly alive inside. “Maker’s Breath, Alexius, what have you done?”

 _“I don’t understand.” The ride in Alexius’ carriage - as well as the strong tea with which the Magister had plied his erstwhile guest - had done wonders for Dorian, and his head felt clearer than it had in a quite a while_. _The very fact that the man knew very well what Dorian had been up to, and_ still _offered Dorian a place in his home, caught him by surprise. “Surely you’ve heard about my long string of failures? Most mages,”_ particularly my father, _“would agree I’m not worthy of anything, much less a mentor.”_

_“I think you underestimate yourself, Dorian,” Alexius said gravely. “All I had to do was remove you from temptation and scratch the surface to find a remarkably intelligent young man. I could use someone with a mind like yours working with me.”_

_Praise. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to receive even a mild compliment, accustomed as he was to being his own best, lone advocate. A smile blossomed on his face as his back straightened. “Let’s talk some more about these projects of yours. I admit to being rather intrigued.”_

_“Oh, you might say that what I’ve been working on may yet change the world.” Alexius smiled and chuckled. “Who knows? I may just save you yet.”_

And now Felix was dead, his blood soaking the stone in front of the fireplace, and Dorian was fighting alongside those who only knew Alexius as an evil cultist, a Tevinter Magister who served a terrible god and summoned demons. Their only hope for the world was to ensure _this_ world never happened, and to that end, Dorian used every iota of his strength to bring his former mentor down.

After the final blow landed, however, and he watched Alexius crumple to the ground, he realized that it was a bittersweet victory at best. Even once Dorian figured out how to return himself and Martin back to the proper time, he would still face the same situation. Felix was going to die, and soon; he could no longer deny that, not now. Alexius would probably die, given the nature of his crimes. The Venatori were a rising power, a continuous reminder of the corruption of his beloved Imperium, and no one from Tevinter would lift a finger to stop them.

He wouldn’t be able to stand by and do nothing. He couldn’t. And that meant staying in the south, amidst people who had no reason to love him, and every reason to distrust him. It meant months, if not years, of deprivation and hard work and false smiles and fake cheer, for the dubious reward of _doing the right thing._

Feeling a bit numb, he knelt next to Alexius and bowed his head. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked up to find Martin standing nearby, an unexpected look of sympathy on his face.

“He wanted to die, didn’t he?” It was sobering, to say the words and know them to be true. “All those lies he told himself, the justifications… He lost Felix long ago. Didn’t even notice.” _Am I guilty of the same crime?_ Dorian wondered silently. Shaking his head, he pushed himself to his feet. “Oh, Alexius.” The regret was heartfelt, for all that he hoped to ensure that this would never come to pass. He already knew that his former mentor, his one-time friend, had started down this path of his own volition. It would be hard to forget that.

If he ever could.

* * *

More arguing. _Naturally._ It seemed like the arguing hadn't stopped since they'd left Redcliffe and its horrors behind, as everyone both in their party and back in Haven seemed to have an opinion on Martin's decision regarding the mages. It was tedious, really, how these Southerners argued over the 'safety' of mages, when there was an entire nation to the North that demonstrated quite nicely that mages could, in fact, be trusted just as much as anyone else.

Which was to say, not at all, really. But _magic_ wasn't the problem, was it? _People_ were the problem.

His ears did perk up, however, when he heard Cassandra acquire that _shut up and listen_ tone of voice he'd learned to recognize on their way back from Haven. "The sole point of the Herald's mission was to gain the mages' aid, and that was accomplished."

Relieved that _finally_ someone had pointed out the obvious, Dorian stepped forward and inserted himself into the conversation. "The voice of pragmatism speaks! And here I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments."

He suppressed a smirk when Cassandra turned to him, keeping his expression affable as the _discussion_ continued. Finally he couldn't hold himself back any more, and stole another opportunity to interject. "Sounds like something a Tevinter cult might do. Orlais falls. The Imperium rises. Chaos for everyone!"

The warrior - their Commander, yes, _Cullen -_ scowled. "One battle at a time."

Dorian frowned. He'd seen and heard a great deal about the Inquisition while traveling back to Haven with the Herald, and it spoke of an organization as yet woefully unprepared to counter the threat on the scale they'd seen in that haunting future. _Whoever this Elder One is, he is not going to be stopped simply because Alexius capitulated to the Herald._ Cults were rarely so easily defeated, as Dorian well knew, and he had no reason to believe the Venatori would be any different.

The information he'd tracked down before returning to Haven to offer his help against Alexius one last time had been more than a bit disheartening. For all that Cassandra insisted that closing the breach was the most immediate concern, Dorian knew, with absolute certainty, that dealing with the Venatori was by far the larger concern facing Thedas.

 _A pity we don't know who the Elder One truly is,_ he mused idly.

All those thoughts were mere flashes in his mind, of course. His main attention was on the conversation, and when the Lady Ambassador invited Martin to a War Council of some sort, he couldn't resist butting in one more time and reply as if she'd been talking to both he and Martin the whole time. "I'll skip the War Council, but I would like to see this Breach up close, if you don't mind." He _hoped_ they wouldn't mind - if studying the rift had been so fascinating in Redcliffe, both present and future, he could only imagine what the Breach must be like. _A veritable banquet of bizarre magical coincidences and impossibilities, I presume. Those are always the most invigorating to study._

Martin raised an eyebrow. "Then you're...staying?"

Since the prospect of studying unknown magic made him feel a little giddy, his remark was more than a tad whimsical. "Oh, didn't I mention? The South is so charming and rustic. I adore it to little pieces."

He expected either a rolling of the eyes, or perhaps even a shake of the head, so the genuine half-smile that came to Martin's face surprised him completely. "There's no one I'd rather be stranded in time with, future or present."

"Excellent choice!" Dorian replied affably. "But let's not get 'stranded' again anytime soon, yes?"

Martin chuckled silently even as Cullen began talking again, and Dorian eased himself away from the gathering silently.

The whole exchange left him baffled, but then, the Herald was a difficult man to pin down. Stoic had turned into complicated, and complicated into almost friendly - a far cry from the grim-faced man he'd first met. It left Dorian a bit uncertain as to where he stood with the Herald. He'd been perfectly content to offer his services as simply another cog in the Inquisition, a mage in the line to drive back the endless night of the Elder One, when he'd first come to Haven, but now?

 _You're just being foolish, Dorian. Why would the Herald of Andraste wish to be friends with the pariah of the Imperium?_ As he considered the notion, a hesitant smile came to his face. _And if that were true… perhaps I won’t be so desperately lonely in the South after all._

The thought helped his smile linger even when he emerged into the frigid air of Haven, and he stood in front of the Chantry for a moment with his hands on his hips. Then he nodded.

"Time to do the right thing."

**Author's Note:**

> Though the romance isn't the central part of that story, it is one of the stronger elements within the underlying themes in Martin's character arc, so I will be publishing this and other similar character exploration pieces as I develop the story further.


End file.
